


The Other Bering Girl

by wellsianwhimsy



Category: Warehouse 13
Genre: F/F, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-21
Updated: 2014-06-30
Packaged: 2018-01-05 04:13:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1089489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wellsianwhimsy/pseuds/wellsianwhimsy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tracy and Myka Bering, despite their best efforts to conceal it in the public eye, have always been close.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Two Sisters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm all about the family, biological and chosen, and it always saddens me that Warehouse 13 hasn't had the time to explore Jeannie Lattimer or Tracy. So, here's my take on the latter, drawing heavily from my own experiences as the younger sister. If I decide I don't despise my writing, I might do Jeannie too as her mum and bro are all secretsssss but chill with her a lot more often, which could be interesting to explore. Anyhoo this is my first fanfic so, y'know, apologies if it's a bit rough and ready.

Despite your very best efforts to conceal it in public spaces, you and Myka are close. It’s hard not to be, she is barely two years older than you and there is no-one else to have your back. Not at home. Two girls, children of a man who barely had wanted to continue his line, certainly not with daughters. Yes. You and Myka don’t really have a choice about being close.

Fifteen years old, you are pretty sure you’re in – at minimum – a small shedload of trouble. Possibly and extensive warehouse if Dad catches you. It’s two in the morning and you are more drunk than you are sober. The front door has a bell that wakes up your parents every time (damn a family of light sleepers) and she had no key for the back. Still, you drop over the wall from the alley that backs the store into the garden and pray for a miracle.

Apparently whatever deity exists likes you tonight, because a miracle you get.

Or, at least, a seventeen year old sister who can’t sleep. A hushed voice broke through the quiet, "Trace, is that you?"

"No, it's a cat burglar." You respond, forgetting that getting sarcastic with your miracle probably isn't the best plan, but grinning widely at the dark shape in an drunken attempt to make up for it. "I'll be up in a minute."

Myka almost raises her voice above acceptable parental-avoidance level in communicating to her sister what a bad idea she views a climb up an already rickety drain pipe (including metre jump to actually reach the girls' room) while three sheets to the wind. You look up at her, hands on hips, "Well, I can't stay out here all night!"

"Just wait." The figure disappears and for thirty seconds or so (eternity to a hyperactive and drunken mind), you’re alone in the dark, bouncing from one foot to the other. Eventually the lanky figure of your sister shows up at the backdoor, hissing, "What were you thinking staying out this late? And on a Sunday! Did you walk home yourself?"

"Yes, Myka, I am a complete idiot who walked through town alone this time of day." You push past her, into the kitchen before spinning around to face your sister again.

"Your sarcasm would be far more cutting if you didn't slur every second word." Myka pouresd a glass of water, all the time glancing over her shoulder. “Drink.”

"Thanks, Mykes."

Eight-forty. The clockface informs you as you wake to a sister shaking you roughly. You’re not entirely sure how you ended up at home in bed. Jenna throwing up in Tim Kipps’ mouth, Kelly yelling something about a leather jacket… everything after that was a bit blurry. "Trace!"

Blinking blearily, it takes a few moments to realise that it is Monday and the hands of your clock are informing you that you’re going to be hideously late for school. "Shit!"

"You're fine. I've dealt with it." Myka shrugged on her rucksack as she spoke. You blink stupidly, trying to gather thoughts past a pounding headache. Myka is being helpful which  _means_  something, you are sure. "I told Mom you have a free this morning and I called reception to say you wouldn't make first class because you'd forgotten about your opticians’ appointment."

You sit up bolt upright, to grab your sister’s arm, but miss with a pathetically large margin (actually, you really do have to make an opticians’ appointment…). Myka has barely spoken to you recently, certainly hasn’t covered for you, unless she was in an exceptionally (and that was, unusual) good mood or when she was in a bad place. You open your mouth to ask, but the expression you are met by says ‘Not now’ and you know better than to try and persuade Myka that she also needs an opticians appointment this morning.

"Hey Mykes!" Your sister stops, midway through closing the door of the room you share, looking back over her shoulder. "Thanks, sis. For this morning."

“And last night.” The door closes and you flop back into your pillow with a groan. Who has a party on a fucking Sunday?

\-- - --

You don’t see Myka at school that day, but it’s not unusual. Myka barely associates with her own year, never mind pass by your gaggle of tenth graders, and you lose yourself to recounting the events of the weekend to the various parties that it interested, entirely forgetting your concern over Myka’ behaviour until your walk back from cheer practice.

"Trace, your sister looks terrible at the moment," Evey changes the subject - they had been arguing over whether Kurt Smoller or Evan Burton was better looking - and none too kindly. You throw a glare at your friend, it’s an unspoken rule of your group that brining up Tracy Bering’s mess of a family is strictly no-go. "She was helping in my Math class. You have to introduce her to make-up."

You weren’t going to dignify it with an answer, but that final remark came too close to a slight against your own status, "Evelyn - I am not, I repeat,  _not_ responsible for anything my sister does, wears or fails to apply.”

Danielle nods sympathetically, touching your arm and apologising on Evey’s behalf for bringing anything up… before continuing the discussion of what an utter embarrassment ‘Miserable Myka’ was. You disengage from it, before you can start to feel the guilt for allowing this conversation to continue. Myka is so rarely a target for any direct cruelty these days, it was easier just to block them out and allow them to get whatever insult to your sister has been deemed to have committed out of their system than try and defend her honour. It isn’t like Myka’s around to hear it and she’d be away at college next year and _so_ not your problem.

\-- - --

You can’t sleep. Trying to catch Myka after school had proven fruitless, your cheer practise stretched into early evening, by which point Myka was leaving for fencing. Bed had called to you, though your mind hadn’t allowed you to slip into slumber, long before Myka had returned from her class. Now too late to confront her, you pretend you are asleep as the older girl creeps around the room, dumping her fencing back in its corner and grabbing pyjama bottoms, before leaving to shower.

You must have finally dozed because the glow-in-the-dark hands of your clock tell you it’s over two hours later when you’re next aware of anything. And what you’re aware of causes your chest to tighten. You hate these nights.

"Myka?" you whisper through the dark. "Mykes, I'm coming up, so if you're actually doing anything I don't want to know about, stop now."

You swing out of your bed (a lot more spry than you were that morning) and pulled yourself up the ladder that connected Myka’s bunk, sitting cross-legged at the foot of her sister’s bed. Myka was curled into foetal position, her back against book-laden bedside shelves as she desperately tried to get her breathing back under control.

"Now, I know what you want to say right now is 'Tracy, fuck off and go back to bed, I'm fine'," you keep your voice light, but quiet, it wouldn’t do for your dad to catch Myka in this state. "But as you're totally not fine, you can't say that, so I'm going to sit here with you until you can."

You sit for a while in silence, watching her as her breathing begins to become more regulated, but eventually you feel the need to break it again. "How you doing, sis?"

"I'm fine. You can go back to bed."

"That was what I was waiting for." But you don’t go. You shuffle up the sheets to take the spot next to her, nudging her shoulder. "You're, like, super smart, y'know that right?"

Myka nods.

"Modest, but I did ask." You smile. "You won't have any problem with college applications. You're going to ace your exams and you've really got to stop stressing. It's your final year, chill out a bit!"

"I'm not," Myka takes another heaving breath, "It's not... I don't know what I'm  _doing_ , Trace. I have no idea what he wants me to do. He always looks at me like... like..."

Oh. It’s this one again. You had spent puberty carefully cultivating not caring what your father thinks about you. Myka, on the other hand, cares too much and it takes its toll because he would never be happy with either of them. It was a fact you’d long since accepted.

"You know you can do whatever you want to do, right, Myka?"

Myka ignores you, either too caught up in her own thoughts or unwilling to consider that possibility, "I thought pre-med would keep him happy. I mean, that's a good respectable route. He seemed pleased when Fergus," your cousin, "got into med school."

"Oh come on," you scoff, aware of how unhelpful it is but unwilling to stop yourself, "Fergus is the apple of our aunt's eye. If Dad had done his usual he would never have heard he end of it."

"I don't want to do medicine though," Myka's voice is steadier now though the tension of her position hasn't released. She still hasn't looked up. "I don't even really  _like_  sciences much."

It’s a surprise every time Myka says she doesn’t like a subject. Every reminder that your sister isn’t a crazy perfect robot person comes as something as a surprise. The crazy perfect robot person was someone you could be bitterly jealous of, with your apparent inability to do anything but muck up.

The ease with which Myka could learn (that memory has always been the source of intense envy), her natural neatness (you seem incapable of not leaving a trail of destruction in your wake, leading ever to arguments with father and mother) and her apparent inability to break rules. But then there’s that she cares too much about what everyone thinks, and, bar her teachers, most people didn’t think much of Myka. Their schoolmates didn’t see her loyalty or her bravery or her crazy swordfighting skills and her ability to perform Shakespeare with you (okay, so maybe you’re the only person who would want to be reading Shakespeare with her…). They just see the bookish, awkward girl who is basically inoffensive. And so boring. You know you haven’t helped in dispelling that impression. And that would suck. You might get annoyed with your friends at times, but they are actually good friends. Myka doesn’t get good friends.

"What do you want to do?" You suspect you haven’t asked Myka that before. You definitely didn’t listen to the answer if you did.

There is a long silence.

You wait out as long as you can bear it, then nudge her again, this time accompanying it with a light punch and an encouraging smile.

"I always wondered..." Myka’s face screws up for a second, before she lets out a long sigh. "Law enforcement. I like the idea of law enforcement. Investigation, analysing situations, fieldwork, all of it."

Well. That was a surprise. You had expected her to answer something like 'English Lit'. English Lit was probably what you were going to do, just because it was pretty much a breeze for the youngest daughter of  _Bering & Sons_. After college, you have no plans. Probably find work in an office somewhere. Ambition is letting yourself in for disappointment. Your careers advisor almost sent you to the guidance counsellor after you said that with utter sincerity.

"Oh." Myka is sure to take the surprise in your tone as something negative. She always does, so you’re quick to follow with, "Then apply after your degree. Heck, you can do any degree you want if you go into law enforcement."

"Don't tell Dad."

At that, you snort explosively, you usually keep those in, it is your natural response to amusement but so  _totally_  uncool. "When was the last time I told Dad anything?"

No response again. Myka clearly doesn’t find it as amusing a truth as you were willing it.

You slide under the covers though, lifting the corner up for your sister to join.

"C'mon, Bering. Get some sleep."


	2. Snow Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Usual disclaimers apply, show not mine, most characters not mine, hot chocolate not mine...
> 
> And Merry Christmas!

"SNOW DAY, TRACE!" You pull your pillow around your ears, clamping it into place with your forearms as Myka bellows from the window. Hopefully Dad is in the shop already and unable to hear her, else they will both be in trouble later. "It's snowing! And you."

Your covers are ripped back and you curl tighter away from the cold. "Are."

Springs creak and the bed dips, as Myka leaps onto the bed, grabbing at the pillow which you were in the business of burying deeper into, “Getting.”

You finally open your eyes to the bright room and brighter smile of your older sister. "Up!"

With a groan, you rub your eyes. "Ten more minutes."

Myka pouts, dancing back from the bed with your pillow still in her grasp, "You love snow days!"

"I  _like_  snow days. You love them." Sensing this is a battle you never stood a chance at winning, you roll over to grab your dressing gown from the floor, pulling it tight in a hopeless effort to ward off the chill. The warmth from the nightly fire never reached their room and the main heating in the house was rarely on and of little use even when their father did relent to the excess. "But the snow will not be gone later."

You don’t know what it is about snow that causes such a role reversal, turning you into the responsible one while Myka contemplates the sheer insanity that is snowballing their father. Two years ago, you had to intervene with a pros and cons list (even snow Myka couldn’t resist making a list) and though you had successfully saved your sister from such recklessness, it had been at the cost of your own snowball fight pummelling.

"It gets warmer during the day, Trace. We are not wasting the first snow day of the year!"

She steers you to the big chest of drawers they share – underwear, long johns, jeans, t-shirt and a sweater she would not usually be seen dead in were thrust into your arms – and god, you are not conscious enough for this yet. You’re a Bering and so a naturally early riser, but you do believe it is also your God-given right as a teenager to spend the time from your early awakening lounging lazily under three layers of blankets. "Am I at least allowed to shower first?"

A woolly hat was shoved roughly onto your head, "Nope! You'll just go for one later anyway, and Dad will hassle you for using up the hot water."

Blinking a few times, you resign yourself to your faintly smelly, frozen fate. This would be the last winter they had before Myka went to college and the part of you which isn't busy perfecting a don't-care attitude towards education, work, parents and general worldview would miss the girl with whom you’d shared a room with for sixteen years.

"I can't believe you, Myka." You roll your eyes as you turn to pull on underwear and jeans. "Sometimes I wonder if the gods put crack in the snow."

\-- - --

An handful of snow that couldn’t honestly be described as a fully formed snowball collides with your own sphere in mid-flight, creating a shower of white between them. This battle had long since left your own small backyard, moving down the street (with the odd Bering alliance to annihilate other kids and then – in truce – aid the construction of a snowman with  pair of twelve year olds Myka babysat on Wednesdays) until there was scarcely a square of untrampled snow.  Despite your sister’s insistence that the snow would all be gone if you hadn’t got up urgently, another flurry started up to replenish the blanket, so quickly destroyed that morning by neighbourhood enthusiasm at the weekend snow day.

This snowfall finally offers some respite, as Myka suggests the pair of you take a break to get hot chocolate (Myka is allegedly giving up sugar but it’s a _snow day_ ). The café is warm, in stark and welcome contrast to the outside world, so the pair of you almost immediately begin pulling off damp layers. You leave yours in an untidy pile and roll your eyes as Myka carefully folds hers. Some things even a snow day won’t change.

"The Secret Service has a Student Volunteer Programme." Myka's head snaps up from laying out her gloves. You’ve been looking for an opportunity to bring it up for days but before today, Myka’s been biting your head off (mostly about mess in the room, failure to do dishes, sneaking out without leaving her a note), and it wasn’t a mood you fancied facing while interfering. You like interfering, but find many people don’t necessarily appreciate your efforts. Myka least of all.

"What?"

"I talked to my career development officer about it." You sound vaguely smug, you know, but as you’ve always found the school’s guidance system utterly hopeless, you find it a small accomplishment that you have managed to make use of it. "It's not paid or anything, but you get academic credit and it wouldn't hurt to have if you applied for them after college."

She’s staring with an unreadable expression (Myka is usually the most painfully obvious with her emotions and reactions, so you’re unnerved to say the least). "Look, I know you hate it when I stick my nose in your business, but it doesn't mean you have to join up. It'll look good on your resume at least, right?"

"Thanks, Trace." Still that... lack of expression. Which you’re going to assume is not a good sign because, while you’ve ruled out angry and annoyed, you don’t think she’s exactly appreciative. "But it wouldn't work out with my pre-med requirements and classes and everything. I already looked."

Of course she had. Stupid of you to ever think you might be one step ahead of your sister. You thank Mrs Elkridge for your hot chocolate when she interrupts with her usual cheerful manner then take to prodding whipped cream down into the liquid, staring a little dumbly at Myka.

"Earth to Tracy... are you still in there?"

"Have you ever done anything just for you?" It comes out angrier than you intended, more frustrated, and almost caused you to jolt over your mug as your grip round it suddenly tightens.

And with that outburst, Myka is staring with that deer-in-headlights look she has long since perfected for such situations (with a pang of guilt, you realise it’s usually when their father is being harsh). But most of you is just angry. Angry at your Dad and Mom and school and _Myka_. Because with each year that passes you’re increasingly confused about how your sister – your strong, funny, intelligent sister – can let every word from Warren Bering’s mouth (ever lack of words, every missed compliment and the neglected fencing tournaments) affect her so. She spends more time trying to work out what could make their father take notice of something positive than she did pursuing what would actually make her happy. It was exhausting to watch, you can’t imagine how it must be to live.

And then - marking a refusal to discuss it further - she shrugged the concerns you dared to express off, "I'm learning Portuguese."

French. Russian. Greek. Latin. This was actually a genuine breakthrough.  _Portuguese_  was at least a language their father didn't speak. Rebelling through! ... language. Well, it took all types. You lean forward curiously, taking another sip from your mug. Myka never started learning a language just for the sake of learning a language. She did it for a far better reason. "Who are you reading?"

"Camilo Castelo Branco." The response came quickly and was met automatically by a roll of brown eyes. You had both been taught to read Russian and Greek by your parents when you were little, and you can appreciate why people want to read works without the loss from translation but your sister often seems to be on a one-woman mission to read everything in its original. You are relatively sure Myka hasn't touched even one of the translated works in the store since she was ten. You had certainly never caught her with one.

"Should I pretend I know who that is?"

"Probably," her sister gave a small smile. And though you open your mouth to return to your earlier comment, it is halted by the pensive look weighing Myka's features. "Please, Tracy. Can we just have a good day?"

You suck in air sharply, biting back the comment, but nod slowly. "So. Shall we go to the park after we're done here?"

\-- - --

Myka keeps throwing wary glances in your direction throughout the afternoon, but you have no intention of trying to broach that topic more than once a week. It was no good trying to force Myka to talk anyway, sometimes you could catch her in the mood. But after years of their father refusing to take more interest in them than what they were reading, Myka’s conversational topics amongst the family were pretty much limited to that. Your sister was also the world’s worst liar, but she was pretty good at shutting down on you and you can’t be bothered deflecting your mom’s questions about what you’ve done _this time_ to annoy her.  And then a completely hypocritical (because like Mom ever stood up for Myka every day that Dad was being a git) talk about how you should be ‘nicer’ to Myka as she was moving out soon and you’d rarely see her. Like you’d forgotten that soon it would just be you stuck here in this house with a father who ranged from indifference to what felt a lot like hatred in his dealings with you and a mother who didn’t give enough of a shit to intervene.

Maybe you’re bitter and shouldn’t think of your family in such terms. You once wrote a personal story expressing such feelings – the teacher nearly called in your parents, not to confront them over why you might feel this way, but to berate you – and it was, again, Myka who saved your hide. Teachers pet was no insult. But you have a father who expects too much of one daughter and thinks too little of the other. He had no concept of actually supporting them. He’d just sit in the shop, writing, barking orders, rearranging the shelves, writing some more, making pointed comments about the lack of sons in the shop…

So, as you pack together snow into ammunition watching the cheerful Mr Malik from across the road helping his kids build an igloo-inspired den in the park, you think maybe you have a little right to be bitter.

"Uhm, Tracy... it's a snowball fight, you don't want to take someone's eye out."

Evelyn had bumped into them in the park about an hour ago, surprisingly pleasant to Myka for once in her life (did snow go to everyone's head?), and had remained to join in the pale battlefield the place had turned into.

You glance down at the ball within your mittens and notice that it has essentially tuned into a lump of ice.

"Damn."

You watch Myka chase down a boy from her fencing class, striking all three balls against his back with an unerring accuracy and cackling maniacally as he fell theatrically into a pile of snow. Evelyn, not always the best human being but a good friend, laid a hand on your shoulder, concern riddling often vapid features. "You 'kay, Trace?"

"Yeah, just... nothing."

A forced burst of mischievousness you grab a fresh handful of flakes and deposit it over Evey's uncovered neck.

The cackle you let out echoes your sister's as you fled from possible retaliation.

"Hey!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tell me if I've been Scots/British on any of the Americans' lines. Sometimes I don't realise something I use every day is uncommon over there. Resumé, resumé, resumé. I also almost forgot that 'Merica's weird and eighteen year old Myka cannae legally drink and non-alcoholic hot spiced 'cider' is no good, so changed a lot of my original plan here.
> 
> Was utterly dissatisfied with my re-write of this chapter, but I promised myself it would go up today, so I just went with it. Hope you enjoyed anyhow.


	3. Good News From The Front

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Usual disclaimers apply. This was originally a side note to the next chapter, but I realised after making something of a deal out of it in the last chapter, it would be a disservice to both not to cover it properly. Anyway, if I skipped to the next I would have missed not only Myka's college years but Tracy's too. 
> 
> This chapter is set sometime in 2004/5. The previous two were both in 1999, I believe.

It had not been a particularly eventful few years. Having the room at home to yourself was nice, but you had missed Myka more than it was cool to admit. You never made cheer captain (purely her own fault for getting mouthy with coach) but was homecoming queen. Myka send some light teasing for that. As if anyone expected anyone else to be crowned. You escaped Colorado for university, but were surprised to find yourself missing it. Not family, or even old friends, but the mountains, accents, familiarity… it was appalling. There had disappeared her plans of travelling the world.

You room on campus is not large, but at least you’re not sharing. You had spent three years with roommates (always figuring you had survived sixteen years of sharing rooms), but after a hellish experience last year, you’d splurged on the luxury of privacy. Worth it.

An old Nokia buzzes violently to life under a stack of papers, sending them fluttering to the floor. You curse, but pick up the phone without paying the papers any more heed. It’s not like they aren’t already in disarray.

"Study stressed student speaking," it’s an unnecessarily aggressively snap, but satisfying alliterative, you offer into the receiver. Your dissertation is clearly getting to you.

"It's me." It took a few seconds to drag your brain from sexuality and gender in nineteenth century literature to identify 'me'.

"Hey Myka!" You prop the phone against your shoulder and return to your notepad which was on its sixteenth page of scrawling diagram (fruit of three months  ~~doodling~~  research). Some were of the opinion that you should actually plan your argument when it came to a thirteen-thousand word dissertation. Your supervisor, for instance. Not a task you had excelled at. You sigh, tapping your pen off the page. "Talk to me, sister."

"I applied. Actually I applied about a year ago. And I just finished the first 12-week set of training. And I'm really good at this, Trace. I'm really really-" the voice on the other end was almost unrecognisable behind excitement and speed of delivery.

"Myka, you've lost me." Not that it was hard right now as you have an approaching deadline, no solid core point and for some reason it was all fluff and cotton wool upstairs. "You've got a job?"

Myka had been working as a tutor in Denver since she graduated. A waste, everyone in the family had said, hadn't she studied pre-law for a reason? Why wasn't she applying to law school?  _Typical Myka_ , dropped pre-med, not taking pre-law forward. Wasting all her potential. You had fallen out with one of your great aunts when you’d returned home some months earlier for a get-together (Myka hadn't joined them). What had started with defending your sister (because you are damned proud of her for finally deciding to put herself first) ended with your Great Aunt calling you a 'harlot' and questioning why the Berings had allowed their  _promiscuous_  (you wore lip gloss, a shocking act) young daughter to fall farther into sin by moving from where the family could exercise some small control.

Like they had ever exercised any control.

"I applied to the Secret Service. We talked about i-" Myka was cut off by a delighted shriek, then a crash and a stream of surprisingly imaginative profanity as you fell from the chair you had been casually swinging from. "Trace, are you okay?"

"Shit. Nope. Fuck. Wait. No. Wonderful!" You were staring down at a crumpled sheet which had clearly been trodden on several times since it graduated to the floor. Months of panic and it had been right there! Your original cause of delight lost behind academic epiphany. "Big sis, you are my lucky charm! Can I call you back in, uh... two hours?"

\-- - --

You are in the best possible mood (so, still incredibly stressed) by the time you call her.

"Myka!" You squeal the second you hear her answer. "I could punch you! Why didn't you tell me you'd applied?"

You can practically hear the shrug on the other end. "Following instructions. You said I was to do something for myself," you rack your memory for having ever said that, but come up blank. You’d always assumed Myka disregarded every suggestion you ever made anyway. "I didn't want the whole family tracking my every move and if it hadn't worked out..."

"This is so totally awesome." you enthuse, interrupting before Myka can put herself down. "I'm so proud of you."

"Yeah?" You honestly never thought Myka cared much what she thought, but the tone was almost hopeful.

"Yeah! Myka, this is so cool." If you’re the test case for her sister breaking this to the family you would be as enthusiastic as your elder sibling needed. "Does this mean you're, like, going to be protecting the President and everything?"

"Uhm, not quite. I've got a bit of training in DC now, which is specifically for Secret Service and then I'll probably be stationed in Denver."

"Still awesome!" Your pen travels absently on the notepad now half buried under the sheets you had uncovered earlier. "I'm so pleased you're enjoying yourself too. That you'd be good at it is hardly a shocker though, when were you last not good at something..."

"Oh shut up. What about you? Are you still seeing Hans?"

"Didn't work out. Turns out he's a massive asshole." You shrug it off. You’d never really been in serious enough a relationship to be particularly upset when things ended. Which was regularly. "I think I might have work though, if I move back to Denver. The charity wants to employ me as a regional organiser once I graduate."

You are well aware the whole family is expecting you to fail upon graduation, at best working in a call centre, your lack of forward planning is infamous. If Myka had failed (joke on them) to get graduate employment, what hope did the youngest girl have?

"Employ? It's paid?"

"Not brilliantly, but I'll make regional manager in a few years which will be far better." In volunteering with the organisation the past four years, you had found you excelled in fundraising, from tiny events in people's backyard to balls for their major donors. It was genuinely interesting, engaging work, perfectly suited to both your need for control and constant socialisation.

"That's amazing, Tracy."

"It so totally is."

There was a moment of comfortable silence as each contemplated the others' news. For all their differences, you were all the support either had ever had and each was bolstered by the thought of the other finding a vocation.

You both try to restart the conversation at the exact same moment though, resulting in a moderately hysterical round of giggles.

Reaching to straighten the photo of the pair of you wrestling in the snow, a smile still plastered across your face, you then switch ears with the phone and collapse back into your bed.

"So, are there any cute guys on your super secret service training?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter will be the second last one set outwith the show's timeline, then we head into: _Tracy Bering, Suspicious But Busy Sister of a Warehouse Agent_ for a few chapters.


	4. Oh God...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is set circa 2007.

"It's good to see you, Mykes!" your voice is an excited squeal as you launch yourself from your chair to wrap the taller woman in a tight embrace. "You look fantastic!"

It was true, Myka looks nervous but happy and healthy and... really, really happy. You’re not used to Myka being happy. She’s not been exactly unhappy since leaving home, just solemn. Before you now, however, is a less giddy version of your sister confronted with a winter wonderland. Though, had it not been the truth, you would probably have still said it. Whenever they went home, they would be accused of being too skinny, of not eating right, of working too hard and not sleeping enough, of cutting hair too short, of wearing too much eyeliner (it had been a phase!). There was always some comment on their appearance. No matter what you thought of Myka’s hair (curly, Myka, curly is gorgeous) or mole (thank god, she had got rid of that on her own…), you would never say a word to her about it.

"You too!" Myka enthused, prising herself out of your arms to look around the room. "And wow, look, you really do have your own office."

"Yeah, they've decided I'm some sort of fundraising prodigy. I mean, they're right and I totally do deserve my own office," Myka raised her eyebrows at this and you decide dialling it back a bit might be wise. "But, y'know, it's just a little one. But it's mine. And Jeffrey's."

You point to the cactus on your desk with a faint hint of pride. Myka had given it to you when you moved to Wisconsin, challenging you to keep it alive. It was alive.

"You realise that it doesn’t take much to keep a cactus alive?"

"Shut up." Crooked grin met crooked grin. "It's really nice to see you Mykes. How can we live in the same city and never see each other? Christ!"

"I'm sorry, I've just been so busy..." That familiar look of guilt crept over Myka's face and you could kick her for it. Some day she would surely get past finding the negative but not yet apparently.

"Myka. Jesus. It's mostly my fault anyway." You punch her shoulder, lightly. "With the manager ill I kinda run this place. But we should get some caffeine in our systems. There's a nice place across the road if that suits?"

Myka rubs her shoulder, scowling good-naturedly, as you collect your satchel from the corner. "Why are you always punching me? You're coming up twenty-five, you have no need for the punching."

"Never too old, sis. C'mon. I want to show off my Secret Service agent big sister to the team."

\-- - --

“So.” You take a sip from your mug and Myka looks up curiously, apparently forgetting it was she that had called that morning and asked - out of the blue - if you could meet her for coffee. "Who are they?"

Confusion. Wasn't Myka meant to be some super-observant protector of the President? Maybe you should be worried for the President. Then again... he is a complete dick. You would be terrible at your sister’s job. Too mouthy and opinionated. Then again, she would be awful at yours. "The person you're seeing, you twat? The one making you all…  _this_."

"How did you...?"

"I shared a room with you for sixteen years, Myka. Also, I’m a total love guru and I can see the signs."

"Sam." She rolls her eyes, but at least gives you an answer.

"Nope, you're still going to have to give me pronouns to work with." It’s a tease, as you raise your coffee mug to your lips. You’re pretty sure Myka’s new beau is a… beau, but you can’t help but tease a little. Just to watch her mind fail to process. Under the guise of genuine sisterly curiosity, of course.

"He!" Myka has gone all wide-eyed and indignant. You try to bite back the smirk desperate to form. "When have I ever... I mean, I so... not that there's anything wro..." Myka trailed off, pointing an annoyed finger at you and halting her rambling before she provides you with more ammunition. The smirk clearly escaped. " _He_. He works with me."

"Ooo, office romance... those always end horribly." You aren’t to know you will one day regret these words.

"Thank you, love guru, for that optimistic vision." She strains her neck, looking vaguely displeased, before shaking her head. “What the hell gave you the idea I was gay?”

“I never said gay! I just wasn't ruling anything out. I mean, at school you had the most obvious crush on the world. On a guy who would have bored you stupid too, plus that college dude was only, like, four months then... radio silence on sisterly sex life."

"So I need to regularly update you on my sex life now or you’ll just start filling gaps?”

"That’s about right." you respond unnecessarily brightly, embracing the opportunity to wind the older woman up. "Anyway, just sayin', if you did like women you'd be glad of my non-heteronormative phrasing."

"I'll tell gay Myka to thank you should I meet her." Such sarcasm. You realise you have genuinely missed having a sister around. "You spent too much time trawling Victorian literature for lesbians, sis."

"That was a first class work, thank you very much." Your choice of dissertation was picked out specifically to annoy members of your mother’s family. Your dad had no opinion, except that - in no uncertain terms - he was not your personal library after you, er,  _borrowed_  some texts from Bering & Sons. "Anyway! Sam. Tell me more, show me pictures. Is he hot? I want to know everything. Please tell me he's not your boss. Can I meet him?"

\-- - --

Sam was hot.

You persuaded Myka to let you meet the pair of them for a drink a little while after she told you about him. A bit too clean cut for your liking, but you can see why Myka's loosened up. The man is possibly the most rigid, detail orientated individual you have ever encountered. Not that he didn't have a sense of humour. It was just hidden somewhere behind layers of duty and responsibilities.

Though he does call Myka 'Bunny' and for once in your life you hold your tongue and don't ask questions.

You're too busy to linger on weird nicknames anyway.

\-- - --

It's been an incredibly stressful few weeks, but looking around the hall – at dancing couples, the band, the trays of bites and drinks doing their rounds – you let out all the tension that you had built up. There is something about social functions, particularly those you are essentially hosting, that relax you utterly. Three weeks of last minute organisation, memorising names and faces, changing the caterer after you had found out the previous one used battery chickens… it had paid off and you were going to enjoy your evening.

Flitting from person to person, accepting the odd dance here and there and making sure everyone remembered why they were here, this is your element. Social butterfly, your father would say with a mocking tone. So what if you are?

You’ve just released an elderly business man when you spot him. A tall young man in horn-rimmed glasses. Almost handsome, but in a fumbling Clark Kent way. Also, he really had to get a new barber. What most caught your eye at that point, though, was that you had absolutely no idea who the hell he is.

"Kayleigh!" You gracefully intercept the volunteer, picking a champagne flute from her tray. For show. Tracy didn't drink on the job. She was on a detox anyway. "Man in the grey tie, do you know his name?"

Kayleigh looked bewildered, a look you have become tired of in the past few weeks. "At least half of them are in grey ties."

You need to start hiring mind readers. Or clones. Everything would get done so much faster. "The young, red-headed one in the grey tie."

That narrowed it down well enough. Only a few of those present were even under forty. "Oh, he's David Llewellyn's lil brother. He was in the military, I think. He doesn't look it, does he?"

'David Llewellyn's lil brother' validated this point by knocking over a stand of mini-quiches. "No. No, he does not."

You sweep (yes, at these events, you sweep) across the room to aid him and bend down to pick up a couple of the quiches. He looks up at you with a weak smile and tries a hesitant, "Ten second rule?"

"I'd say what they don't know won't hurt them, but it's a damned lie." The corners of your mouth quirk into a small smile. "I'll be expecting your brother to be making an exceptionally large donation tonight to make up for it."

"Oh god," he responds with a panicked expression. "Please don't tell Dave! I can pay for... I can make a donation too. I mean, I was going to anyway, but..."

He is so ridiculously someone that your mother would adore that you almost took your leave then. Luckily, you realise, he would drive her father insane. _Reign it in, Bering, don't start wedding plans yet._  Instead you offer him your hand, interrupting his rambling apology, "Tracy Bering."

"Oh!" He said, grasping it with reassuring firmness. Definitely good. He's not a complete flake, at least. "Kev. In. Kevin. I'm Kevin. Oh god."

"You're doing an exceptional job at taking the Lord's name in vain there."

"Oh god. God. Sorry, it won't stop!" He looks slightly desperate, blushing furiously as he digs himself a hole. "Fuck, I am a disaster. Shit, sorry."

You step back, moving to turn away, before you dissolve into inelegant laughter. You are cursed with the Bering family's manic cackle, or worse, your own personal explosive snorts, "I wouldn't worry, Kevin. Some people might find it sweet."

You don’t miss the fleeting hope that passes over his face as you turn away, and grin smugly to yourself. You know that look. He'll find you before the night is out.

Two hours later, as you return David Llewlynn to his wife after fleecing him for money, you overhear that the younger brother has gone home.

Okay. Maybe you misinterpreted that look.

Still, the next two days are spent flicking through pages of attendees and donations looking for contact details. You don't know why as it is not like you to chase.

Apparently he hadn’t remembered to make that donation.

You stick your head out the door.

“Kayleigh, get me David Llewellyn’s number  _now_.”

You flump back over the desk with a sigh.

"Oh god." You have a crush.

Tracy Hermione Bering does not get crushes.

_Oh god..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sean McGowan is kinda my headcanon actor for Kevin. If anyone was wondering.


	5. Issues of Mortality

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a bit angsty and all over the place. Sam's death and Tracy's thoughts around it. Exploring some of Tracy's insecurities some more. Part of my reason for writing this is that I don't agree with the common headcanon that Warren was easier on Tracy. I prefer these two sisters who just have entirely different coping mechanisms as children (and, therefore, as adults).

_Sam is dead._

What are you meant to do with this information?

_Sam is dead, Tracy._

You don't know how to react to this situation.

_I was too late and now he's dead._

\-- - --

You just hold her and say nothing. There is nothing to say at this point. Or if there is you don't know what it is. You are twenty-six years old and one of those incredibly blessed individuals who has never yet lost someone dear to them. Death is something in novels and films, it's a plot device, it isn't this real tangible thing that it is to other people. You've never put much thought into it.

You know that's odd. Unusual. Particularly for someone who works for an organisation helping people who know death all too intimately.

You've always thought it morbid to linger on such matters. Unhealthy. Life is for living not for worrying over matters you cannot control.

You wish you hadn't been so stubborn. You're holding your sister tight, in silence, reassuring yourself that  _she_  is still here and solid and alive. The dangers of Myka's job have never registered to you and while Sam lies dead, all you can think is how grateful you are it wasn't her. Another 30 seconds and it could have been your big sister. Someday it might be and the thought terrifies you. You have no idea what to do with this new information.

It shouldn't be new information but you've spent quarter of a century running from unpleasantness. Always, endlessly upbeat. You're the confident, bubbly, easygoing sister. You bend (not so much break, these days) the rules and you get away with it because you're a positive, likeable person. That's the role you built yourself and you don't know how to operate outside it.

So you keep your arms around her and start working through a plan for the coming days.

\-- - --

She has barely slept since you insisted on moving in with her but each night you sit at the end of her bed and she complains and you tell her you're not going anywhere and eventually she accepts it. You feel like you're fifteen again.

She's sleeping now. Holding your hand tightly and looking anything but peaceful. You almost called Mom the other day, because Myka's not eating either and someone has to make her eat. But you remember that this is your family and your parents don't even know Sam exists.

Existed. Past tense.

You drift off with thoughts of mortality (cheerful) and when you wake up, the bed is cold and empty.

There's a note on the table saying she's gone into work. It is five-thirty.

\-- - --

"Myka, you're working too hard. You're allowed to stop. You're allowed to take some time to mourn."

"I'll mourn once I've caught him." Myka spits the words at you, but you shrug them off. You know the anger isn't actually directed at you. It didn't take long to notice Myka falling back into the pattern of your school years. You can handle that much. You had years to practice. Sending a 'thanks for being a shit dad' card to your father seems tempting right now.

Kevin said it helps. Having someone around who will take the anger and let it roll off them. You don't tell him you got in plenty of experience in the kitchen at home as your father berated you for an imagined disrespect. You don't tell him you were only nine when you saw the damage such rows had caused your sister and vowed it would never touch you. And that is the reason you are so relentlessly positive.

You hope to build a home and a family with this man, where your kids will be supported and respected. You don't need memories of your own tainted home life.

\-- - --

You move out of Myka's flat two days later, but you still go bring her lunch during your break every day. Your boss lets you reshuffle your workday so you can have an extra hour for the trip across town. You have barely seen Kevin in these three weeks but he understands too. Unlike you, he has lost people. And under not dissimilar circumstances.

\-- - --

The reception security barely looks at you anymore when you sign in and head up to Myka's team. You're on first name terms with the other two guys from her team - they update you on how she's doing, though never able to give detail. Men.

And Myka? She looks terrible. You're glad she cut off regular visits to your parents years ago because their comments would not be helpful. She's started eating again, more than the lunch you bring her, which is something. But she's sworn off sugar. An exercise in control she had been able to let go of after she left home. No-one else would think that was a worrying sign. They would argue that Myka's single-mindedness in catching Sam's killer was more concerning. But you don't know that part of Myka. You don't know her work. However, you did share a bedroom for sixteen years.

You know swearing off sugar isn’t a good sign.

\-- - --

She's transferring to Washington now and it makes you nervous. Myka's always been a poor communicator, isolating herself off from others, and you doubt you'll hear from her much. Still. Washington is, all in all, probably for the best.

Point 1: Myka can no longer obsess over Sam's case. She can start to heal. Good.

Point 2: The promotion, which is what it is, will be good for your sister who has needed academic validation in the way you need social validation. Not perhaps healthy, but that is part of the both of you, growing up in that house, so you can let it pass.

Point 3: She will be protecting the President - how can Dad put that down? Even though you don't like this new President any more than you liked the last. It's possible you just don't trust anyone who would want that position. You don't see how his life is more valuable than your sister's. If she takes a bullet for him and survives you'll punch her. If she dies, your place in history will be the woman who punched the leader of the free world.

So you hug her and tell her to keep in touch, then you call Kevin and inform him you are moving in with him.

 


	6. Season 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter covers season 1 and just post-2x01. Features a bit of Kevin, features a bit of Tracy opening up to Kevin. Also, I went back to put the whole fic into roughly correct person/tense.

_ South Dakota. Please don't tell Mom. _

Like you tell Mom anything. You keep in touch, but that's about it, there's a wedge between you see no way round. You never ask after your father, you clam up if she tries to bring him up. Which she doesn't any more. It's been three years since she last tried to force you to reconcile. There are a couple of cousins who still think you're overreacting enough to call every time he has a birthday, but they didn't have to grow up above Bering & Sons. 

Arms wrap around you and you almost jump out of your skin before recognising the smell and shape enclosing you, "Kevin, you're going to give me a heart attack one of these days."

He is possibly the most quiet person you have ever met. Both in that he is of few words and he literally doesn't seem to make a noise around the house. You tend to crash around the flat, on the phone, trying to cook, having friends by, singing badly (a mix of genetic clumsiness and a childhood spent being a brat)... while he pops up like a ninja. Often with food that he didn't mess up the timings on and burn to the dish. 

"That wouldn't be good. Who was on the phone?"

"Myka. She got a transfer. To South Dakota. Which _is_ a promotion, she assures me."

"Well, you know how difficult those Mt. Rushmore presidents can be." he smiles, releasing you to take the phone and place it back in the port. You punched him lightly, shaking your head as you go to wrestle with Delia Smith's Summer Collection. Kevin's days to cook always turn out better.

\-- - --

_"No, this little guilt trip you’re taking me on, I don’t do that anymore. Dad won’t miss me … he! When I was there he didn’t know I was there, okay, so just tell my mother to stop making you do her dirty work. Tina, I gotta go. Working. Okay, bye.”_

That evening in Colorado…

You pick up the phone, the caller ID informing you it’s the call you’ve been expecting since yesterday afternoon.

“Hi Myk.”

"Are you going?"

"Do I ever?”

“Was it Tina who called you?” Myka sounds utterly resigned and you can’t blame her. Your mom’s taken to enlisting family members to try and force the pair of you to so-called family gatherings which generally involve either the father who didn’t want either of you or the great aunt who thinks you are the antichrist. 

“Of course it was. It’s almost always Tina.” You continue, saying at the same moment as Myka, “Or Fergus.”

“My partner’s trying to make me go.” You start at that, almost knocking over the glass of wine by your hand.

“What’s that? You’re seeing someone? Since when?”

“Not that kind of partner. So not that kind of partner. My work partner.” 

You laugh, “Oh, right. I’m assuming you haven’t told him you grew up with a neglectful father who resented your existence?”

“Have you told Kevin?” No. As she well knows. You think he more or less has it figured out but you’ve never actually spoken to him about it. You don’t want to. It seems unnecessary.

You forget to actually reply, lost in considerations of the implications on your relationship that your steady boyfriend has never met your parents. He’s never asked to though, and you’d like to avoid it. 

Myka breaks the silence for once, interjecting, "Oh, and Trace?"

"Yeah, sis?"

"I get the hitting thing now." 

\-- - --

A week later, you hear from your mom that Myka came up for the party and ‘You couldn’t just have put your grudges behind you this once?’ 

No. And why the hell had Myka?

The phone in in your hand before you can think better of it but there was no answer. You don't bring it up when you next speak.

\-- - --

You were in Wales visiting Kevin's family when it happened. You wouldn’t even have known about it, but for a voicemail from your sister when you returned. She had sounded panicked. She also sounded like she was driving, Myka never drove while on the phone, stickler for the rules. The message was three days old, but you called her back rather than trying to get hold of your mom. If you brought up Warren with her, it would just start the begging you to speak with him again.

"Hello?"

"Myka, it’s Trace." you manage to keep your voice steady. "I just got your message. Is Dad- is everything okay?"

"What, uh, Dad? Oh. I never called back." there’s a groan down the phone. "Tracy, I’m so sorry. He’s fine. I should have called once he was in the clear but some stuff came up at work then I had to go to London and I only just got back."

"So he’s fine?"

"Yeah." you release a breath you hadn't known you were holding.

"And you, you’re okay?" 

"Why wouldn’t I be?" she sounds vaguely defensive, and you feel it's less to do with Dad and more work related.

"Because it’s Dad."

"Things are better." you can practically hear her nodding. "We should maybe speak soon or something. I think… we need to stop punishing Dad f-"

"For being an awful father?" you know it’s bitter but you can’t help butting in. There’s a reason your mom contacted Myka not you when your dad fell ill and it wasn’t just because she was oldest. "For eighteen years of insults and neglect and general assholery."

"Assholery isn’t a word."

"Myka!"

"He apologised, Tracy." her voice is strained. "He had regrets."

"And that makes it all better?" you know you’re shaking, and Kevin’s giving you worried looks. 

"No. But he’s our dad, Trace."

"Yes, his sperm did very well at reaching an egg." 

Silence on the other end of the phone, then a muffled shouting in the distance. “We’ll speak soon. I promise. But my boss is yelling, I need to go.”

The last thing you hear is another voice yelling something that sounds a lot like “H.G. Wells”. Kevin looks across with a frown crossing his brow, “Are you okay, honey?”

"I think my sister has lost it. Knocked her head off a wall. Memory loss." you cradle your head in your hands, trying to work out what the hell was going on. "He ‘apologised’. So what? Three decades and now he’s sorry?"

She dissolved into laughter, sensing she wasn’t coming across entirely sane to her partner, but unable to stop, tears sprung up at her eyes and the laughter slowly turned into racking sobs. 

"Tracy." An arm wrapped around her and held her close. "Talk to me. Please."


End file.
